


Petals and Beestings

by SuedeScripture



Category: Actor RPF, Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-05-10
Updated: 2007-05-10
Packaged: 2017-10-19 12:48:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/201000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuedeScripture/pseuds/SuedeScripture
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Billy is fired up and easily aggravated, and some flowers are just too perfect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Petals and Beestings

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by events at ORC 2007, or rather the night prior, at Beecake's gig at the Hotel Café in LA.

“Billy, that was fucking fab–oof!–lous. Ow, mate, what the fuck?”

Orlando’s head collides with the gauche red wallpaper, flattening its artfully wacky spikes under a satisfying thump. Satisfying because this look is five inches too long to be a mohawk, and about three inches too long to be a fauxhawk, and too artfully tousled to be anything besides direct-to-It-man-status Hollywood preened motherfucker pretending he isn’t from the backwash of Kent. The prat looks like he walked straight out of Jonathan fucking salon in his sharp jacket and Prada shoes and then right into the Hotel Café with clear, premeditated intent.

“Bloom. You little prick.”

“Bill, mate, yeah, it’s….gngh. Could you not be so… nghk… rough?”

“Right,” Billy hisses through his teeth, shoving Orli harder against the wall with one forearm pressing firm to his collarbones, “Who the fuck invited you, eh?”

Orli slides a quick tongue over his lips. “Dom said–“

“ _Dom said_. Dom. I didn’t see him waltz in there, did you?” Billy plucks up Orlando’s jacket and twists it tight in his fist.

“Jesusfuck, Bill, this is Armani, man!”

Billy doesn’t loose his hold, mocking, “Oooh, petal. Such a delicate wee flower, aren’t you love? I asked you a fucking question.”

“I… ah,” Orlando blinks furiously at the raunchy orange bulb flickering over the toilet’s single oily mirror. “I… what was the question?”

Billy's grin goes feral, inches from Orli’s face and enunciates slowly, “Who. Invited. You.”

“I…. Dom said, you were, and I… you. Ow Billy, Owowow, not the hair, not the–” Billy grips that stupid long bit at the nape of his neck and yanks back, forcing his neck taut and face high. The haircut is asking for it, really. “– hair,” Orlando hisses, “Fuck. Dom told me, all right? I wanted to see you sing. Your first LA gig. I wanted to see.”

Billy giggles in spite of himself, letting his sweatdamp upper lip brush up against the bounce of Orli’s adam’s apple, and it comes out six shades of wicked. “How very fucking touching, mate. My very first LA gig. My _very first_ show on this fucking continent. _My_ band, _my_ club, _my_ bloody fans.” His smile and cheek melts off his face, “And who should walk in.”

Orlando blinks. “Me?”

“You.” Billy gives him another fierce shake. “You think I didn’t see from up there? You think I didn’t see the shiver twist through the room? Eh, did you?”

Orlando’s mouth breaks into teeth and brilliance and then tries desperately to cover it. “Sorry.” He really isn’t, though.

Billy snorts from his nose, shoves once more, and drops him.

He isn’t really angry. It’s been a year, or something like one since he’s seen Orli, not with being busy changing nappies between writing songs and the little pissant was off in the Caribbean doing whatever it is newly single A-list actors get up to down there. Orlando looks as good as can be expected from a PR tailored little poster boy who can’t be allowed to dress himself anymore, lest he embarrass himself like he used to. Billy misses the old days when this bloom had a little color to him.

He curses at the stupid fucking analogy. How they’d dressed that pun up and let it run its course at the beginning of all this. _Ooh, look! It’s Flower! How’s the precious little Rosebud? What color will the Petal be tonight?_ Still slips out, apparently. Orli doesn’t ever wear more than black and grey anymore.

Billy had been rather proud of his own altogether this evening. The worn and loved cotton shirt, waistcoat pinched out of a new three piece suit, trousers from an old one he’s had from way, way back. Nowadays those trousers hug him in all the right places and all the wrong ones too. Not a single piece has a recognizable designer brand name on it, and he was fucking proud. Up until the moment when, all effortless grace, Orlando fucking Bloom sauntered right the fuck into the club amongst girls and boys who soiled their knickers when they realized who he was. The one man in this universe that could possibly steal the fire, so to speak.

“You looked amazing up there, if it helps,” Orlando regains his feet, twitching dirt from his pristine fancy clothes and fussing with his hair in the dingy mirror.

“Right. Pull the other one.”

Billy turns to the urinal and unzips, the trousers practically parting like the Red Sea for him, they’re so tight, and dammit, he fucking likes them that way, because they make him feel a decade cooler than he actually is.

“You did. With that harmonica, and the way you move when you’re singing, like you don’t even–“

“Pinch it off, Orli,” Billy mutters, sighing. “Can’t have a piss in peace anymore.”

“Jesus Bill, didn’t you get enough of it?”

He finishes, tucks himself back in (arsing fussy zip) and pulls the flush, turning, “What?”

Orlando blinks, gesturing at nothing. “Of all that… the fans, the fame, all the fucking people watching you put petrol in your car and… everything else besides. What’s all this about, Bill?”

Billy washes his hands and then scrubs them wet against his hair and the back of his neck. It feels good trickling down his collar. No one ever took pictures of _him_ gassing up his car. “I dunno. I… I’m having a midlife crisis, I suppose.” He meets dark, soft eyes, and shakes his head. “I can’t afford to buy the Ferrari, so I bought my mates the band we wanted when we were fifteen. And besides, all that…” he waves a hand, mimicking Orlando, “That was yours, not mine. You went out and got yourself famous. I went home and got myself old.”

Orli grins softly and comes close, ever invading one’s space. “If you’re what old looks like, I’ll quit trying to die young. Seven fucking years on and I’m still not as sexy as you.”

Bill rolls his eyes, “You’re daft.”

“You’re modest,” Orli presses him against the sink top and drops a kiss on a sweaty temple, then tilts to follow a drop down with his tongue, and presses smiling teeth to skin, murmuring lowly. “You always smell good after you sing. All sweaty.”

Billy exhales, letting his eyelids drop. “My girlfriend’s outside.”

“Mmm-hm,” Orlando presses closer, shuffling his feet between Billy’s. “It’s a men’s.”

Billy’s drops his hands back to steady himself at the sink, and he’s being snogged more gently and thoroughly than he had been by Ryan just five minutes ago. Orlando tastes like gin and tonic and the sort of filthy intentions Billy could never resist back then. Things are different now, or they should be. When Orli’s large warm hands press over his own, caging him against the counter as he dips into Billy’s mouth, it relights a fire that had been dormant for ages.

He backs the taller man across the small room, pinning him to the loo door and pressing it shut, growling “Occupied,” to someone pushing from the other side. This is more on his terms, and right now his terms are aggravated and aroused without having been invited, and he presses Orlando’s shoulders back against the wood and downward.

There is unwarranted resistance accompanying that dazzling, lazy fucking _cocky_ grin, and Billy gives a handful of hair a sharp yank and grits his teeth, in no mood for tolerance. Orlando relents, letting his back slide down the door.

Sliding his thumb along and then into Orlando’s mouth, he unzips once again and drags the remaining cheeky curl away from its corner before shoving himself inside the warm, wet heat.

This is the sort of aggressive, dirty desire that only comes out at odd times and with certain people, the sort of thing he would never ask of or force on the woman he loves. Billy is a gentleman, and he remembers what his grandmother had taught him.

Yet he’s spent almost two full years, several holidays and many business trips in various locations scraping the dark underbelly of his mind with these people. And enjoying it. A lot. It's trying to let it go that's the problem, especially when the fuckers keep showing up with glowing opportunities. These are like no other friends he’s ever had.

Where Dominic knows all sorts of unbelievable tricks with his tongue, Orlando can suck like a goddamned Dyson. And he always, always orders drinks at pubs that required a straw. Billy had seen him standing in the darkness, little more than the shape of his cheekbones and the bright of his grin closing around the little cocktail straw visible out in the dark audience, during the first chorus of _Drunk_ , when his mouth had gone dry.

Billy grunts and wraps his free hand over top of the hand dryer on the wall for more leverage as he pumps, the knuckles of his other hand rapping against the door where it cups the back of Orlando’s head.

He thinks sporadically of his mates and Ali, of Viggo and Dom (who said he’d keep low), of Ryan –the bastard– giving them all a free show most of them would have paid for, the fifty or so fans just outside this door. He grins, panting at the thought that half the audience has possibly imagined, but has no idea that Orlando fucking Bloom –heart-throb, It man, A-list fucking movie star who can’t have a piss without asking his publicist– looks debauched and red faced and humbled sucking Billy’s cock in the men’s of some tiny LA dive mere feet away from their excited twitters.

The sheer filthiness of it has him coming with a jolt that fires itself down the length of his spine and wrings an edgy groan from his throat. Just for an instant, he feels like a rock star.

He catches his breath and takes his hand off the hand dryer, which thankfully had not come off the wall, scrubs it through his sweat-soaked hair and offers the lad a hand up. Orlando looks fucking gorgeous in ways few people get to see: on spread knees with his shoulders propped to the door, mouth swollen and wet and lax, large hands palming himself through his trousers, eyelashes thick and dewy and looking up as though Billy is the sun, hair tousled this time with a goddamned reason to be so. The beautiful wreck that he really is lies underneath the primped and sullen exterior. The one that Billy misses more than he resents.

Billy hauls him to his feet and props him against the door again, gently this time, and tastes himself on those lips. It doesn’t feel like seven years should have passed and so much should have changed.

Orlando wraps his arms around him tightly. They’re stronger, more muscle and less wiry gawkiness, but there’s still that insecurity that was there the first time they'd met, still the same hunch to the shoulders, the same apprehension under enthusiasm in his voice. “I just wanted to see you sing.”

Billy sighs and nods. Sometimes Orlando fucking Bloom is still the soft, colorful little petal after all.


End file.
